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gingerteaonthetardis · 1 year

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Eight/Charley/Rose with "I'll never unsee that" if you're willing. I love these idiots so much

oh, nonny, i love them too. and they are indeed idiots. idiots in love!!! anyway, thank you for this prompt and i hope you enjoy the mess.

as a quick warning: this fic is rated T for the drinking of alcohol, some suggestive flirting, a tentacled man(?), and jack harkness. if any of those things bother you, i apologise!

.✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.★.*｡･ﾟ✫*.

"Do you think he's enjoying that?"

"What, the tentacles?" Rose took a sip of her hypervodka, eyes narrowed over the rim of her glass. How she could put away so much alcohol without so much as a wrinkled nose always baffled Charley. "He certainly looks like he's enjoying it."

“Enjoying what?”

The Doctor materialised behind them, his hands full of three narrow-mouthed beakers that steamed rather menacingly. Their contents were a lurid green: the same colour, or nearly, as the tentacled man—if he was a man—across the bar, Charley realised.

She blanched. But she reached for a beaker anyway.

“The tentacles,” replied Rose, seeming not to notice Charley’s squeamishness. She tossed her drink back immediately, effortlessly, and Charley watched her smooth throat working with a pang at her loveliness. “We were working out whether Jack was enjoying himself or if we ought to stage a rescue.”

Admittedly, Charley’s thinking hadn’t gone quite that far. Rather, she was overwhelmed with a morbid kind of fascination about the creature’s anatomy and how Jack—unflappable though he may be—was coping with it.

Did the tentacle feel soft? Slimy? Did it have those little suckers clustered on its arm—and was it an arm?—like freckles?

The Doctor, meanwhile, was slow to catch on. He seemed more preoccupied with watching Charley as she fussed with her drink, turning it this way and that, holding it up to the light. It was alarmingly opaque.

His full lips twitched as he settled onto a stool. "It is safe, you know," he teased. "I wouldn't poison you, much as you vex me, darling."

Rose giggled into her glass. But Charley poked out her tongue at the pair of them and resolved to take a hefty swallow.

When it passed her lips, the drink tasted sharply, almost overwhelmingly of lemongrass, with a faint bitter aftertaste. It wasn't totally repulsive, she thought to herself. So she steeled herself and swallowed the rest.

When she dropped her chin, she felt both the Doctor and Rose looking at her. Rose was giving her one of those smiles: tongue-touched and a little flirtatious, the kind which so used to catch her off-guard; the Doctor looked rather proud.

"Well done, Charley," he smirked. "I knew you had it in you!"

She felt herself begin to preen before realising how absurd it was to be proud of such a silly thing. She straightened her shoulders and gestured across the bar. "So," she said, sounding only a little squeaky, "what do you think?"

The pair turned to look.

It seemed the situation had progressed somewhat. The man-thing’s tentacle had abandoned Jack's chiseled, square jaw, leaving behind a sequence of bruises that very much answered the sucker question, and it seemed to have moved on—quite a bit lower, in fact. A few of the buttons on Jack’s rumpled Oxford were undone, and the tentacled bloke seemed to be taking full advantage while their mouths remained fused.

"Oh," the Doctor muttered sourly. "Well, I'll never unsee that."

"Trust me, with Jack? You've seen worse," Rose insisted. "Or will have. I dunno." She waved her hand, a little careless gesture. She was always doing that—always making references to things out of sequence. It got worse when she drank. Charley found it extremely endearing. "Either way, seems like he's having a good time. I say we leave him to it."

The Doctor swiveled on his stool, arching a brow and looking Rose full in the face. "Leave him and do what, I wonder."

Now it was Charley's turn to smile, watching with no small amount of amusement as a flush flooded the other woman's cheeks.

Rose never could get used to the Doctor's flirting, or at least, not when it was so open. She was tremendously solid and sure of herself in other ways, but this? It suddenly turned her into a mess of fluttering lashes and unwanted blushes.

She had once privately confessed to Charley that she almost always found the Doctor attractive, though she hadn't met all his past and future forms, but that this Doctor—their Doctor—possessed a different sort of beauty entirely. A kind that tended to undermine her higher functions.

And Charley, though she hated to admit it, could absolutely relate.

Rose's eyes darted to meet hers, and Charley tried—and failed—to hide her grin. She nodded. They were, she smugly felt, the three of them far more interesting to her than any antics Jack could get up to.

TARDIS, she mouthed, slipping her key from where it hung on a chain, nestled in her bra.

"I have a few ideas," Rose said, all pink lips and promising smile. Charley felt like the luckiest woman in the universe. "Let's go home."

.✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.★.*｡･ﾟ✫*.

more lighthearted prompts...

#I JUST WANT THEM TO FLIRT THROUGH ALL OF TIME AND SPACE #also an added thank you to my girl thinky who inspired me on the jack front... though she didn't suggest *tentacles*... that was all me #charleightrose #charley pollard #eighth doctor #rose tyler #charley pollard x rose tyler x eighth doctor #dw fic #fic and chips #abbey writes

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lotsofthinkythoughts · 2 years

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📚 for Doctor Who ✨

Oh god, there are so many. The Rose-Dimension-Hops-into-the-Time-War fic, the I'm-trash-and-watching-Classic-Who-and-inserting-Rose 'fic' (there is no plot, it's just me wanting Rose and all the companions to be friends lol), the whole CharlEightRose universe. Let me see if I can sift through everything for one that's not... a whole damn cinematic universe in my brain XD.

Oh, man, I had a concept once upon a time of a Nine/Rose epistolary fic, that started life as a supernatural AU where he was like a historical astronomer, but that over the years kinda morphed in my brain just into a more... 'the TARDIS thinks Nine needs a penpal' kind of deal in his wanderings pre-Rose.

And it's just... them writing to each other in 'magic' journals. I still don't know why the journals are magic, it's just a suspension of disbelief point for the concept. But anyway, they write messages to each other, back and forth, in this journal, just... talking about life and the places they go/want to go, Rose talks about how shambles she feels her life is because of her terrible boyfriend (then, eventually, ex-boyfriend) and he just... talks about the places and people he sees.

The whole thing comes to a head when they run out of pages - they're down to the last pages and there's a final message, and then like... the next month he lands on Earth and Whoops, there's Auton's in the shops. Time to save the world. And accidentally meet his penpal lol.

(In the original concept there was unexplained time travel at the end, so I think that's why it ended up morphing in my brain, because like... if he's gonna time travel anyway, he might as well just... be a time traveler.)

#deardiary17 #thanks for asking dear!#I feel like my daydream fic concepts are really bland #because I never actually develop the plots #I just daydream about the characters showing up and interacting #also... can you tell I ONLY read Doctor Who fic for Rose? lol

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gingerteaonthetardis · 2 years

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More Eight/Charley/Rose for you because I can't stop thinking more about them:

So Eight and Charley are adventures that publish their adventures as sort of serialized novels and Rose is their ghost writer/editor. So she basically takes all their notes and journal entries and turns them into comprehensive stories.

They're all hopelessly in love with each other even though they've never actually met in person (Rose was assigned to them by the literary agency she works for and they only talk through the mail)

And then Eight and Charley go back to London for Christmas or something and finally meet Rose

how did i not see this. HOW.

this is genuinely such a cute idea!!!! i'm imagining charley and the doctor just sending their notes and journals at first—sometimes on stationery, sometimes clearly ripped straight out of their notebooks, sometimes scrawled on the backs of receipts—but as they start to develop a rapport, suddenly the envelopes start getting thicker: they'll be full of sand from a specific beach they talked about, or include photographs of landmarks, or better! one of charley's sketches of something they saw. or they'll toss in the labels of snacks they picked up at some market, or bits of fabric. sometimes there's just a postcard in there with a little note saying 'hi.'

it's like, even though they're far apart and only communicate by letter, they want her to feel like she's there with them!! also, i can so see them not telling her they're back in london until she gets an incredibly thin envelope... with an entry that's kind of vague... but it's on stationery from the lanesborough or somewhere like that... and at the bottom, there's a date! and a time!?! and a location—her job!!! the place where she works!!!

and that's how they all meet. charley and eight just come tromping into her little office and it's like they've all known one another their entire lives. and the next time they go on an adventure, rose goes with them.

#a rose by any other doctor #abbey.txt #dw #charleightrose #THANK YOU FOR SENDING THIS SORRY IT TOOK ME SO LONG TO ANSWER #but i really went down the rabbit hole thinking about it

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gingerteaonthetardis · 2 years

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Me again, okay but I literally never stop thinking about Charley being with Nine and Rose during Father's Day.

And her following nine back to the TARDIS and demanding to know how Rose saving her dad is any different from the Doctor saving her on the R101

which, oh my god, if we follow the whole thread all the way to neverland (which i'm re-listening to rn!) it turns out that there's virtually no difference and charley's continued existence is essentially catastrophic, but what really intrigues me is, like, what if the events of father's day were sort of a precursor to them figuring out exactly how anomalous charley is. that would absolutely influence rose's timeline manipulation on the gamestation. like, you know she'd want to untangle that knot and save her girlfriend... @lotsofthinkythoughts any thoughts?

#thinking thoughts and having emotions!!!#a rose by any other doctor #abbey.txt #charleightrose #dw

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gingerteaonthetardis · 2 years

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I know the CharleyEight pit is scary but what if we put some Rose in there too? As like a little safety net.

i like the cut of your jib

#a rose by any other doctor #abbey.txt #charleightrose

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gingerteaonthetardis · 3 years

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For the writing prompts, this just came into my head but Eight as a wandering wizard selling potions and the like who comes into town one day, and Rose as a customer who comes up with increasingly silly ailments she needs potions for??? (As an excuse to see the cute wizard, obviously) No pressure obvs I just thought it was a fun (very random) idea!!

okay, the truth is, i loved this prompt so much that it took me forever to write, because i wanted to do right by it. i ended up sort of... going my own way, though, so the result isn’t exactly like your prompt. or... really anything like it? but i hope you enjoy my nonsense anyway! it has charley!

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐩 𝐀𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐨𝐚𝐝

There was nothing to suggest that the shop which sprang suddenly into being across the road from Henrik's was built by human hands.

The way the villagers remembered it, they had all simply woken one morning to find it there, standing bold and brilliant against the clear autumn morning. The shop was no taller than any other building in town, though it was a good bit narrower, and it was built in the appropriate style—it nearly looked like it belonged. It had large, recessed windows that didn’t feel particularly out of the common way, and a lovely, hand-painted sign that simply read “Opening Soon.”

Really, excepting it’s sudden construction, the shop might have been completely unremarkable, only the exterior had been painted a deep, vibrant shade of blue.

A shade that caught the eye.

Nothing caught the eye in the village. It was all varying shades of brown—earth, and stone dug from earth, and planks hewn from great, brown trees, with roots that reached deep into the earth.

But the shop across from Henrik’s—Rose felt this distinctly—was unearthly.

She had plenty of time to pore over the impression, as Old Mr. Henrik had long since given over the daily tasks of running the shop. This meant that Rose spent a good deal of time on her own, fussing with inventory and wiping down countertops and—yes, gazing out the window at the shuttered blue door. She doled out spices and flour and lengths of fabric and listened to every scrap of gossip she could get. She spent an even more sizable part of her day imagining what might lay behind it.

Three days passed in this fashion.

All sorts of fancies flew through her mind, the longer the shop sat in empty silence. For nineteen years, nothing had happened in her life. Certainly nothing interesting. Nothing like the spontaneous appearance of a shop, selling unknown wares.

There was no sign of anyone going in or out, nor anyone moving inside, but the townsfolk often stopped to peer in through the windows, Rose among them. She always had some excuse: If the owner was a cure-all, her mother could certainly benefit from some such elixir or powder. If the owner was a mender, she had a shoe in need of cobbling. And if the owner was a wizard—but, no. Rose was too sensible a girl to fall for that kind of fancy.

Day after day, the shop remained dark. After a sufficient amount of time spent in silent unremarkability, the shop seemed to lose some of its mystery for the townspeople. Even the most restless of busybodies seemed bored of looking through the opaque windows, searching for signs of life.

But not Rose.

Only once, on the third day, was there any indication of occupancy, and that was when the sign in the window suddenly changed—metamorphosed, it seemed—to one that read “Opening Quite Soon.” The word “quite” was underlined.

Rose had only looked away for a moment—not nearly long enough for someone to take down the old sign and put up a new one. The sudden alteration was enough to renew her interest, as well as the impression that the little shop was decidedly unusual. But the road was nearly empty by now; there was no one to confirm what she’d seen.

Dark was coming soon, bringing the end of her shift at Henrik’s. Soon, she’d have to go home and give up her most fascinating employment of watching the little blue shop. Rose took her time closing up for the night, contrary to her usual rushing impatience, and locked the shop door with an uncharacteristic sense of regret.

When she turned, she would take her last glimpse for the night, make one last effort to pierce the darkness beyond the window panes—she’d best take her time with it, make enough observations to keep her occupied all night. Her hand lingered at the door handle. And then, teeth worrying at her lip, Rose turned back to the blue shop that had so caught her imagination.

There was a light.

An oil lamp, gleaming in the window, casting warm yellow light over that same wooden sign.

A sign which now said, in bold letters, “Open.”

Her heart leapt, and once again, she found herself looking left and right, as if hoping that someone else would see this impossible occurrence and verify it. But there was no one; the streets were abandoned, and all the nearby windows were shuttered for the night, to keep in the warmth from their hearths. She had only her own eyes to prove that what she saw was real.

Rose couldn’t say how she traveled across the road. Only, in a matter of moments, she felt her hand pressing against the wooden door. It seemed to pulse with a life that sent tremors down her spine. Summoning all of her bravery, she pushed—and the door smoothly opened.

Into a room—a tall room, if not necessarily large, though it certainly couldn’t fit within the limited confines of the wooden exterior. Her eyes searched wildly, looking for some sign to confirm any of her suspicions, to determine the place’s purpose. But her mind came up blank.

It didn’t resemble any shop she’d ever seen; there was far too much clutter, even for a trinket shop. The walls were crammed floor-to-ceiling with bookshelves, holding a host of tomes in varying sizes and shapes, and shoved in between them were the oddest things she’d ever seen in her life: bits and bobs, skulls, dried flowers that she didn’t know the name of, feathers of foreign birds, little boxes, bowls, jars of powders in a whole host of shades, wood-carvings, bone-carvings, wrought metals—even what appeared to be a tiny, silver-flashing fish in an equally tiny glass bowl. It was such an overwhelming sight that she forgot to close the door behind her, or even step inside. Rose was lost in her own fascination.

And from the ceiling hung the oddest thing of all—something she couldn’t quite describe, only it looked like a solid gold sphere, crusted with stones that sparkled in impossible colors and an unreadable pattern, with layers of rings circling all around it, animated by some force that made it move. There was a rhythm to the movement, hypnotic and slow—

“Fascinating, isn’t it?” came a voice, surprisingly stout and close-by. “I haven’t the faintest idea how he does it.” When Rose started, gaze dropping from the wide-beamed ceiling, she was surprised to identify the owner of the voice as distinctly not the sort to be a proprietress of such an impossible shop as this. She wasn’t terribly tall and gaunt, nor was she particularly intimidating, nor was she deliciously enigmatical.

Whoever she was, Rose couldn’t help but feel she was quite lovely, with soft, dimpled cheeks and golden hair that fell in loose, uneven curls around her face. She was dressed strangely, wearing plain, brown-ish sort of trousers that looked as if they’d been cuffed several times to fit her, tucked into heavy boots. But there was a sense of solidity to her that gave the impression that she didn’t necessarily approve of such frippery and nonsense as this shop contained. Her hands were firmly rooted on her hips.

The woman smiled widely as Rose looked her up and down, and then up and down again.

“I’m Charley. And you are?”

“Rose,” she supplied, gaze unwittingly catching on something just over the woman—Charley’s shoulder. It looked like a clock, only more complicated than she could’ve possibly imagined. Interlocked circles made unfathomable rotations, nearly as quick as blinking, while another hand ticked steadily by. It reminded her greatly of the turning of the sphere and rings overhead…

She tore her eyes away from the strange hanging contraption again, offering Charley a rueful smile. “Sorry. This place is just… amazing. It’s not like anything I’ve ever seen.”

Charley only laughed, the sound merry and warm, like a home fire. “I understand. I was the same way, when I first started traveling with the Doctor.”

The word caught Rose’s attention. “Doctor?” Her eyes tried to scan the shop, looking for signs of such a person, but if he was there, he was impossible to distinguish from the muddle and mess. “Is he the one who…?” she trailed off, making a faint gesture upwards, while trying to keep her gaze firmly on the woman before her. It was a bit less difficult when she began to note the sparkle in Charley’s eyes, which were something between the colors blue and green, a beautiful colour—and they seemed to emanate a strange light, as if she had seen things impossible to comprehend. Magic, no doubt. The thought sent another shiver through Rose.

Smiling and nodding, Charley glanced briefly up toward the spinning globe. “He’s made—or procured—nearly everything in this shop, I think. Completely brilliant, though I’d never tell him so. His head’s big enough as it is. But the Doctor’s not just magically gifted, he’s really mechanically-minded, you know? He started his apprenticeship—and then his real magical practice—long before I met him, but—” and here, Charley cut herself off with a sudden laugh. “I say! I’m doing quite a dreadful job maintaining the air of mystery, aren’t I?”

Rose couldn’t help the grin that slipped across her face. “I think it’s plenty mysterious in here without you being grave and silent into the bargain. But,” and she turned, glancing out into the dark night, where all of the houses remained unaware of the wonderful things she was seeing, “why did you decide to open up at night? Everyone was so curious, during the daytime.” She was too embarrassed to include herself among that number, regardless of its truth.

“Oh, but that’s just the problem!” Charley cried. “We didn’t want everyone to come—only the most interesting sorts of people. It was my idea, actually,” she went on, sounding a little proud of herself. “Filters out the dull sorts, only opening at night.”

It was with more than a little embarrassment that she shook her head, insisting, “Well, I’m afraid your plan hasn’t worked. I’m quite dull, actually.”

“Now, I wouldn’t say that—”

Rose jumped at the unfamiliar voice which sounded behind her, turning so quickly back toward the open door that she nearly lost her footing. Standing in the wooden frame was a man—the Doctor. She knew it instantly, though she couldn’t say how. Much like Charley, he was not tall, nor was he imposing. But though his smile seemed friendly, there was a dreamy, strange quality to him that reminded her of the great men she read about. Religious men, ones who saw impossible, holy things.

Like Charley, his eyes held an impossible glow—that of starlight, coming from a great way off.

His clothes were as unusual as his person. He wore a coat in an unfamiliar cut, and the colours were shockingly vivid—riotous, not unlike the shop. And glinting between chestnut curls, she could make out the distinct twinkle of gemstones, which seemed to pour from the lobe of his ear, matching the amulet that hung from his neck.

He really was a wizard.

Rose was only distantly aware of her own rudeness, and even less conscious of her reply. But whatever it was, it seemed to amuse the Doctor, for his lips split with a laugh which tumbled musically over her. “But I do know you, Rose Tyler,” he said. “Or I will do, if you come with us.”

“Doctor,” Charley said, her voice tight with warning, and if Rose wasn’t mistaken, touched by the trace of a sigh. Perhaps this was not an unusual occurrence—her mind raced—perhaps they used the shop to attract intrepid young girls like herself, to whisk them away...

Charley moved to the Doctor’s side, eyes narrowed and scolding, hands still on her hips. The Doctor’s answering smile softened, sweetened, and he bent to press a kiss to her temple. Rose watched them with a strange feeling in her stomach, unsure whether she ought to look away or not. If it was an act—

But, no. She couldn’t quite believe it.

Still, some impulse made her avert her eyes from their tender expressions, and in a search for an innocuous resting place, she alighted again on the hanging fixture overhead. It had not ceased its spinning; whatever magic kept it in motion had not been disrupted by the Doctor’s appearance. It continued its inexorable rhythm, as if it had been only waiting for her eyes to return to it. The burnished gold rings caught the light with each rotation, like bracelets interlocked over an arm. The orb itself winked like a great eye. Dimming and flashing, dimming and flashing, ceaseless and steady.

Rose felt, however strangely, that nothing could stop the movement of the encircled sphere. It would spin like this, into time unfathomable. Slowly, almost without her awareness, a vision became superimposed over that of the sphere, over the shop itself: a vision of a girl, a shining, golden creature, with such rings encircling her arms. Only they were made of light—of pure, undiluted light, pouring out through her fingers—

The vision scattered when a hand pressed itself to her shoulder. Rose couldn’t tell whether it was Charley or the Doctor who touched her, but it didn’t matter. The vision was gone, shattered, leaving behind the impression of loss so great that she felt sick with it.

She lurched toward the door, brushing past the Doctor as quickly as she could. She shivered when their arms touched, an echo of that gold light flashing across her vision, burning away the shadowy darkness. Warmth came with it—the sort of body warmth she’d only felt when her mother’s arms were wrapped around her, or when one of her friends took her hand. The warmth that had flowed through the girl in the vision—through her.

Was it a spell, she wondered, to make her compliant? Something to entice her to stay? She had nearly forgotten her fear in the trance of the beautiful, celestial sphere.

The Doctor’s breath caught; she could hear it, so close. “Don’t be afraid,” he said softly. Charley made a soft noise, almost plaintive, in accompaniment. And Rose wondered if perhaps she was wrong—if they were good...

But it was too late. Rose was out the door, running headlong into the night.

She knew the path by heart, back to the little cottage she shared with her mother. She knew every bump in the road, the change of texture under her feet when she entered their little garden, the scent of the smoke curling from their chimney. But there was no sense of safety in the sameness—in the place where nothing had ever happened. Not for her entire life.

Her mother met her with tea. They had supper. They spoke of small things, unremarkable and unremembered, for Rose’s mind was floating somewhere along the road between herself and the magical shop, where the beautiful man and woman must go about their business of closing their shop, and eating, and sleeping. What did wizards eat? She couldn’t help but wonder. Were they married? Surely, they must be. She had felt their love.

“You’ve barely had a bite to eat, sweetheart,” her mother said, in the way that mother’s have, that is both chiding and concerned. She watched her daughter with a sense that something had happened—something that was, if not awful, surely upsetting the girl’s spirits. But Rose had no words to ease her mother’s fears.

“I just have this feeling,” she replied uncertainly. “This feeling that there’s more.”

Her mother’s rough, work-worn hand stretched over the wooden table between them, pressing into her palm. “More of what?”

She didn’t know how to answer. “Everything,” Rose said. “Of time. Of life.” She sipped her tea, but didn’t taste it. Behind her eyes were endless spinning, hypnotic circles—the promise of something enduring. Something more than waking up each day and eating porridge and balancing Old Mr. Henrik’s books for him.

She wondered if another person would see the light in the strange shop’s windows, and if that brave soul would venture through the door, and if they would be met by Charley’s bright, honest smile—if the Doctor would say their name, just like he had hers. Like the syllables of it meant something big, something burgeoning and great. She wondered if they would see the spinning creation overhead and feel called by it.

Her heart twisted painfully in her chest, trying to break free from some invisible restraint. She kissed her mother goodnight without eating a bite more, and she went to her bed.

But Rose barely slept.

When she did, her dreams were haunted by their words. “If you come with us,” the Doctor invited, over and over. “Don’t be afraid.” Charley’s affection when she’d spoken of her travels. “I was the same way, when I first started traveling with the Doctor.” The words felt like an incantation, one Rose performed and repeated in the solitude of her little cot. Remembered phrases. She breathed the cool, quiet cottage air. She wondered at the darkness, now that she had seen such beautiful light.

What else was there? She thought of the little silver fish, and the foreign bones of unnameable creatures. There was magic, she felt, in the world. Magic that she had only to reach out and touch—

If he asks again, she thought. All through the night, she came back to this one thought.

If they ask again, I won’t say no.

And the next day, she went back to the shop.

#prompt fic #eighth doctor #rose tyler #charley pollard #dw #SUNNY THANK YOU FOR YOUR PATIENCE #charleightrose #fic and chips

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gingerteaonthetardis · 4 years

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Pirate Captain Charley Pollard and her first mate Rose Tyler ‘kidnap’ nobleman Eight. Shenanigans (and flirting) ensue.

ah!! this was so fun to write, thinky, so thank you for the prompt. i hope you enjoy it, even if it’s a tiny bit light on the shenanigans. as usual, please forgive any of my mistakes; without you to pre-read, nobody edits this nonsense. (also, tagging @kallianeira so you don’t miss it, dear.)

read on ao3.

𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕨𝕚𝕟𝕕𝕤 𝕠𝕗 𝕝𝕠𝕟𝕘𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕚𝕟 𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕚𝕣 𝕤𝕒𝕚𝕝𝕤

She likes to watch her wife work.

The way she bends over her nautical charts, fingers stained with ink. The way she eagerly learns where each member of the crew is from, and if she doesn't see their homeland on the map, if she isn't familiar with the place—she will find it. Mark it. The triumph in her smile as white parchment is lost to the dark stain of discovered land, of conquered sea.

Rose has a head for navigation—always has. She can get a ship where it needs to go, plot a course based on the stars alone. But she likes to make sense of it all on paper, when she can.

And Captain Charlotte Pollard watches.

She could not ask for a better wife. Nor a better First Mate.

"Where are we going next, Charley?"

Rose asks this with her head resting in her wife's lap, her hair falling like liquid gold over faded breeches. How different they are: where Charley keeps her own hair cropped, hidden beneath her wide-brimmed hat and it's violet plumage, Rose's is long. When she sleeps, it spills over her shoulder in a glowing braid. She herself looks as bright as any treasure.

It is a quiet night—calm seas, calm crew. It has been long enough since their last victory that they are no longer eager to celebrate, and yet not so long that they are restless for another fight. Peace, the rarest of weather patterns, reigns over them all like a gentle mist. And a deeper peace—one that Charley only finds in Rose’s company—resides in the cabin they share. Captain's Quarters, still but for the gentle rocking of the ocean waves.

She runs a hand through Rose's hair. "I thought—maybe we could go home again." She doesn't say it like a command, though she could. Almost certainly, she should. She's known for weeks now that it was time. If they want to strike back at that miserable, damp little island that had borne them, they cannot wait.

Rose's movements pause, fingers half twined with Charley's free hand. "You want to hit the heart of the Navy," Rose observes. "You think we have a chance."

"More than. I've heard they have civilians onboard. Nobles."

Her wife snorts, clearly unimpressed. "Why?"

"Because that is what they do, love. They insert themselves where they are not wanted, in order to exert their fragile power over those beneath them." Charley can feel her fingers flexing, her grip too tight on Rose's hand and Rose's hair, and she forces herself to release them—and with them, the anger that boils up inside. That life is far into her past, she reminds herself. It cannot touch her. "We can do what we’ve always meant to, Rose."

Her wife smiles. "Hit them where it hurts." And then she reclaims Charley's fingers, pulling them to her pink mouth and bestowing a kiss.

She wants to laugh—after years of bloodshed, of storms, of lack and deprivation, Rose can be as sweet and soft as the blooms for which she is named. Thorned, yes, and fierce. But there is a tenderness to her which can never be entirely weeded out, not by man or sea.

"Aye." Charley says, voice reverent. "Hit them where it hurts."

"Ouch—ow, that bloody hurts!"

That is, by and large, the point. Nonetheless, Captain Pollard signals for her crew to unhand the man who has become their unwitting prisoner. It was a split second decision, the choice between execution and capture landing like a coin with a particular side up. She hadn't much cared either way, but now she is beginning to wonder.

He is a chatty thing, and that’s not entirely welcome. His accents are too familiar; they remind her unpleasantly of home.

"Honestly," he's saying, voice impossibly clear and articulate, "I'm on your side. There's no need for such—such violence!"

She can hear Rose's laugh, light as a bird catching an updraft, soaring over the sounds of everyone else. "You haven't even seen violence yet, mate," she teases, her voice so warm and genuine that even the man seems inclined to laugh with her. She has a way about her: the people around her follow her lead. When she laughs, they laugh. When she shows mercy, they are inclined to do the same.

It is she who steps forward to secure his bonds while the rest of the crew recedes, though barely. Their curiosity keeps them close.

"I can well believe you're on our side," Captain Pollard says, the sound of her voice bringing any lingering chatter to a halt. She cannot help but be pleased at the way her crew parts around her. Rose is loved and it suits her well, but as the Captain, she is respected.

The prisoner comes into view: a mess of curly hair, unkempt and brittle with sea-spray. Rose has tightened his bonds, and his hands hang limply before him. His face is chiseled and clear, undeniably noble.

"I imagine, sir," she says, "that you are on whatever side offers the best chance of saving your hide."

"You must be Captain Pollard," the prisoner says, giving a deferential nod. But when he looks up, there is a distinct sparkle in his eyes, which are bluer than the sea. His overtures at respect are, perhaps, not quite genuine.

"Must I be?" she asks, arching a brow.

The man—she'll have to learn his name soon—quirks a smile. There is blood on his mouth, whether from an intentional strike or the chaos of the battle, and when he grins, she can see how it stains his teeth. "I could tell—by the accent."

She doesn't let him—or the crew—see her anger, though Rose can almost certainly see it anyway. The presumption of the man, to remind her what she has fought so long to escape. She has scoured her skin with years of salt water, and yet it seems, she can never quite escape her own noble birth. Rose shifts closer, fingertips outstretched. Captain Pollard lets them brush her arm and takes comfort.

The man seems not to notice her silence, adding, "And by your crew. I had often heard tell of a ship run by two women, bonded by love as well as loyalty, and their growing crew of misfits." His eyes flit back to Rose, and he gives a wink. "I was curious."

"So you attempted to stow away," Rose supplies. Closer up, the Captain can hear the underlying rasp of her wife’s voice—she is hoarse from shouting over the sound of gunfire and cannon blast all morning. No one could possibly mistake her for a noble; it had been what first made her so invaluable in recruiting. Nobody wanted to work for the very sort of person they sought to escape. But they had both proven themselves more than their upbringing, in the end.

The man nods, one lank curl falling over his face. He is not a large man—there is no height or bulk to him. But she thinks she can detect a wiry strength in his arms, a clever look to his fingers. They can make use of him.

"Since you are so eager to sail with us, we will make a sailor of you, whether you will or not. Jack!" Captain Pollard barks, all business.

"Aye, Captain?" The man appears at her side. He's been onboard nearly as long as Rose, and one could scarcely ask for a better—or more good-tempered—crewman. He is grinning as he awaits her orders.

"Show him the ropes." She allows herself a slim smile as she looks back at the man.

She doesn't have to see him to hear the smile in his voice as he answers. "Aye, sir."

The man—who eventually introduces himself with the uninteresting name of John—becomes a member of the crew about as seamlessly as one could expect. He is an impressive storyteller, always willing to bend someone's ear. And at least half of them seem to contain some kernel of truth.

Within a week, he earns the nickname "Eight" for apparently being the eighth son, back where he comes from. Most of the crew are rather shocked at the idea that so many children could survive the dangerous passage to adulthood. And so, "Eight" he becomes.

Eight jokes that his father had been attempting to purchase him a commission with the Navy, that this wasn't exactly what the man had in mind. "Still," he says, "it's sailing, at any rate, which ought to make them happy enough."

He is undoubtedly posh, his accent clear and elegant—in fact, he reminds Charley quite a bit of herself when she first started out. But for all his soft hands and too-eager smile, he seems quite willing to learn.

Though, not from Jack.

That is a matter of some amusement to all: Jack, who has often been their ambassador—Jack, who is known for being unabashedly friendly, even flirtatious, with all he meets—is not at all well-liked by their new crewmember.

Instead, John seems to attach himself to Rose.

At first, both Charley and Rose are rather suspicious of this. But Rose warms to him in time, using all her experience as First Mate to turn him into a useful part of the crew.

She teaches him to read her maps, and he takes to it like a fish to water, diving in with all of his substantial enthusiasm. He is not so skilled at navigation as she, but his knowledge of the world is fascinatingly encyclopedic. He seems to know everything about lands they've never even seen—plants and animals, myths and constellations, history and art and music and the sciences. He happily helps Rose fill in the empty spots of her map, and then he goes a step further: he populates that map, filling it with fascinating people and delicious food and political intrigue and thrilling adventures.

Spellbound, the crew inevitably begins to gather while he weaves his stories, and Rose sits at his side, her smile wide and white in the lamplight. She leans toward him as a moth might approach a flame: with unguarded fascination. Her innocent attention is lovely to behold.

Charley thinks his tales are mostly, if not entirely, nonsense. But still, she watches. And listens.

"You like him," Rose teases, this time running her hands through her wife's close-cropped hair, her fingertips raking over her scalp. Charley shivers under her ministrations, and then settles against her. "You act as if you don't, but I know you better than that."

"He's a hard worker," Charley admits. "And he's kept the crew so entertained they've hardly had a spare moment to grow bored. But," and she rolls over suddenly, arms reaching out to pin Rose’s hands to the pillows, "—he's ridiculous, Rose. Utterly ridiculous."

Beneath her, she can feel her wife's ribs twitching with the effort not to laugh. But Rose's eyes are assured, almost serious, as she says, "You like him."

And Charley, God help her, does not deny it.

The first time he's hurt in a skirmish, Martha comes to her cabin after she's done binding his wounds, the beautiful young woman’s face pinched with exhaustion.

She had wanted to be a doctor, back in her own land, and she'd read every book she could get her hands on—but she'd only ever been permitted to practice aboard this vessel. Elsewhere, women were not so readily accepted in that particular profession, no matter how capable.

Martha has plenty of experience patching them all up, Charley tells herself; there is no special cause for worry.

Still, Charley's fingers knot together like the ropes overhead.

She's seen to her own wounds—mostly nicks and scrapes—and she is tired, but she still follows Martha to their makeshift sickbay, where Eight rests on a cot. And Rose sits beside him, her hand smoothing back his hair.

Her wife looks as if she's walking a narrow ridge between concern and contentment. When Charley enters, she looks up and a smile flashes over her face. "There now, Eight," Rose says, her voice teasing, "you can stop your moaning—she's come to see you."

The patient—who looks alarmingly pale, as if he's lost a lot of blood—gives another halfhearted moan, though this sounds nearly like a noise of mortification. This is confirmed when Rose giggles. "He was worried," she explains, "that you'd be angry about having to drag his miserable hide back aboard."

Charley arches a brow at him, as if to ask, Is this true?

"Evenin', Captain," Eight greets, his speech oddly slurred; she wonders if Martha had to use an awful lot of rum to sedate him. "Hate t' call your wife a liar—"

"Then you'd best watch your tongue." Charley offers him a wry grin, which is met with a more sheepish smile of his own.

"I want'd to thank you for saving my—'s Rose so… so el'quently put it—mis'rable hide." Once again, she is caught off guard by the glint in his eyes, as if he contains a carefully-cloaked light constantly threatening to spill outward. Even when he isn't fully aware of himself, he seems to glow with it.

It was nothing, she wants to say. Same thing she'd do for any of her crew that needed help. But it wasn't exactly that.

The worry she'd felt when his head had lolled against his shoulder, his legs sagging under his own weight—she'd found herself wondering what she'd tell Rose. What she'd do with her evenings if he wasn't hanging about with his ridiculous stories. She'd found herself mumbling to him as they staggered across the ship: Stay with me, John. Stay awake. Stay with me.

Charley blinks, and she sees that Rose is hiding a smile behind her hand.

"You can thank me by getting better with a blade," she says coolly, gesturing to the cutlass that hangs from her own hip. "I will train you. Or Rose will, she's nearly as good as I am."

"Nearly?" Rose cries in mock-protest. But it is just that: mock. They know who, of the two of them, is the fighter. Who had used her fists and fury to escape her old life, who had forged a new path with the business end of her blade. Rose is familiar with her wife’s fierceness.

Charley’s answering smile is fond. "Very nearly."

Her wife seems content with that. And as Rose brushes his damp hair away from his face, Charley sees that John looks equally content. Lethargic, even, like he is nearing sleep. His eyelids flutter, his long sooty lashes fanning out against the bruises under his eyes."Thank y'. I'd like that, Charley—I mean, Cap'n, sir."

She just shakes her head, wondering how she came to allow such impertinence aboard her ship. "You're welcome, John."

That night, she and Rose struggle to sleep.

Charley wonders if they are both thinking the same thing—about how wrong it would've felt to lose him, to suddenly be without their strange, soft-spoken nobleman who had turned out to be such an excellent pirate.

And an excellent friend.

The uneasy, churning sea is not the only thing which tosses and turns that night.

After that, John is somehow both closer and further away than ever.

He makes a good student, and his enthusiasm to learn the finer points of swordplay is more than enough to attract other students—the quiet C'Rizz, who usually prefers his musket; Jabe, with her long, graceful limbs, who treats battle like a beautiful dance; Amelia, who is young, fiery, and in need of guidance. More and more, they gather to her: misfits she has found herself collecting but never truly knowing before.

She feels like one of them, even as she stands at the fore and commands their movements.

They all gather together to listen to their Captain as she teaches, and Charley finds herself looking forward to the opportunity to make their crew even stronger—their trust in her, in themselves, and in one another even stronger. At the very back, Rose follows her drills with a smile, occasionally weaving through the gathered to correct someone's form or stop them from injuring themselves. Often both.

She watches as her wife corrects Eight's grip, her small fingers forming around his. She watches the hitch in his breathing, and the way his eyes skitter toward her, almost as if he's nervous. She finds her own lips to be stretched, her smile broad. And she laughs when she taunts Rose that night and her beloved First Mate blushes like her namesake. “I believe he wants more from you than simple swordplay,” she laughs, and Rose bats at her head, but she does not mean it.

The lessons are not always such a pleasure, and her crew is not always so disciplined. Often, she wonders if these new skills will really serve anyone in the heat of conflict. And someone nearly always gets a cut or a bruise throughout the course of the training, but—

Charley is happy.

One night, there is a faint knock on her door, and when she answers, he is there. Shivering in his shirtsleeves, the late night mist swirling around him. He's paler than a ghost in the moonlight, and his expression is just as haunting. Thoughtful, as if he wants to say something but isn't sure he should. And he looks—

Uncommonly beautiful.

"Who is it, love?" Rose's voice drifts over her shoulder, and it's amusing how quickly his cheeks start to color before her eyes.

"One guess."

Rose is silent for a long moment. "Well, are you going to let him in, or do you intend for him to stand there all night?"

A smile traces John's lips, lifting the edges for a moment before releasing them. The lines at the corners of his mouth are severe, tense. He is nervous. When he looks at her, his eyes seem to drag her in like a whirlpool.

Charley's brow arches as she tries to extracts herself—fails to extract herself. He doesn’t look away. "I was considering it,” she lies.

"No, you weren't," Rose laughs.

The sound drains the tension out of Charley's posture, the arm which had protectively shielded the doorway falling. It has much the same effect on him: his mouth softens.

Rose, her tone rich with amusement, says, "Let him in."

And she does.

#eight x charley x rose #charleightrose #what a tag that is lmao #my ot3 #eighth doctor #rose tyler #charley pollard #this was so fun to write thinky!!#thanks for the prompt #abbey.txt #ficlet

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gingerteaonthetardis · 4 years

Note

For the promps thing: eight andnRose have a telepathic bond but have never met, charley finds this hilarious

i sort of got carried away with this one... that’s part of why it’s taken so long. there’s a wee bit of angst mixed in here, but the ending is happy and i hope you enjoy it!

p.s. i apologize for any messiness, this received... like, no editing.

read on ao3, if you fancy.

𝕋𝕣𝕚𝕡𝕝𝕚𝕔𝕒𝕥𝕖

There is a man standing in the middle of a very nice, very spacious timeship—if he does say so himself—and he is holding a cup of tea. The cup of tea has just been gently pushed into his hands by a very nice young woman, with blonde hair and delicate features and great big eyes that look at him in a way that he hasn’t quite decided whether or not he likes. She is called Charley. And the tea she just gave him is warm, but not hot. This is important, because the tea is about to leave the confines of his hands (as well as its cup), and if the tea were hot, it would change the following sequence of events quite dramatically.

He smells the bittersweet bergamot and the fragrant orange blossoms, and he takes a deep breath, and then the man—who, it should perhaps be mentioned, is not actually a man—smiles. And then he feels something sweet and tender inside his head, like a flower unfolding. It is such a mild and soft sensation that he almost thinks it is a direct reaction to the scent of the tea. He does like tea quite a lot; perhaps a bit more than is usual. However, he does not like tea enough to let it physically inhabit his mind.

And that is what is happening: he is being inhabited.

Granted, he is not completely unused to the sensation of being inhabited, because he is a Time Lord, and he is occasionally subject to a bit of friendly (or unfriendly) telepathy. But not like this. Never by someone who feels faint and soft and peach-colored, like bleary eyes right before they blink open. Never by someone who feels so young.

It is like a finger stroking delicately over the gray matter of his brain.

And several things happen at once. Primarily, he drops his tea, and as the porcelain shatters on the ground and his trousers are spattered with a warm—luckily not hot—splash of liquid, he smiles. It is one of those real smiles that he only wears on absolutely spectacular days, when things have gone so completely right that the expression can’t help bursting out of him, bright and sunny.

“Hello,” he says, aloud, because it seems strange to begin a first conversation any other way, even if he is beginning a conversation with a person who he cannot see or hear or touch, because they are inside of his brain. “Who are you, then?”

Charley, naturally, is confused—both by his long fingers spreading wide, as if he’s waving to something unseen, and by the tea that now pools under the heels of her boots. She looks down at the puddle of rapidly-cooling liquid, and then back up at the man before her. His eyes are bright and blue and sparkling; this is an expression that she likes, but cannot trust. And so, because she is a human and the man in front of her is not to be trusted, she frowns. “Doctor?”

A moment passes. The Doctor’s face remains sort of fixed, like he’s daydreaming. She begins to wonder about the tea, whether someone shouldn’t clean it up. It looks as if the someone will have to be her, given the Doctor’s rapt expression and complete immobility.

“Yes, that’s my name.” He pauses. “That was Charley.”

Another moment of stillness. She is beginning to get concerned now, truly. “Doctor, what’s happening?”

“I know, it’s mad,” he answers, though it isn’t clear whether he’s answering her question or responding to his own interior conversation. He does talk to himself sometimes, Charley reasons, just normally not to the detriment of the china. So, whatever is happening must be quite beyond the ordinary. The tea has now spread into the vague shape of the continent of Africa in miniature, and it is growing larger every second. With a sigh, Charley hurries out of the room in search of towels.

When she returns, the Doctor is still standing stock-still—it’s almost alarming, actually. If it weren’t for his steady breathing, she would take him for a mere statue of himself. And the tea is still on the floor. She drops to her knees and begins mopping it up just in time to hear him say—in that reverent tone of new discovery, in the way he says the names of new worlds, a voice reserved for moments of near-religious fervor, if Time Lords did believe in gods, which she can’t be sure of—just one word.

“Rose.”

It gets easier after that. And funnier. Because Rose—that is, the girl inside the Doctor’s head—is quite teasing and clever and, to his pleasure, very much human. Which makes what she’s doing utterly impossible, and all the more interesting for it. Her telepathic touch is gentle, but it’s also quite persistent. There is rarely a time when he cannot feel some part of her lingering at the edge of his thoughts, and he wonders if he feels that way to her, as well.

You do, Rose replies. It’s like you’re sort of… just on the other side of a wall, only the wall is in my head. Does that make sense? Jimmy thinks I’m mad, of course, but that’s what it feels like.

He likes the ways she has of expressing things; it’s always different than how he might describe them. Everything about her is different than the way he is, really, and even the way Charley is, though he could credit much of that to Rose being very much earthbound. Charley is timeless in the way he is—like him, she lives in holes in the fabric of time, woven only loosely among them and constantly sticking out like a loose thread, begging to be pulled.

The metaphor extends fantastically far. There is a flexibility in the weft, and sometimes things—people—fall through. Like Rose, falling impossibly into their timeline and into his head.

Jimmy? That’s your boyfriend, he guesses. She’s mentioned him a few times, usually in passing.

Charley looks up from her book, as if she knows that Rose is there, or that he is thinking about the differences between herself and Rose, or something else eerie like that. She’s quite brilliant, his Charley, and perceptive. Her eyes narrow, and there is a little smile that plucks at the edges of her lips. “Is she back again?”

Sure am, Rose answers, though Charley can’t hear and it only muddies the conversation. The Doctor has to blink once, forcefully, to clear his head enough to speak. “She is.”

You could tell her what you’re thinking, you know, Rose offers, and when he doesn’t answer, he feels the mental equivalent of a huff. The clearing out of mild irritation through the lungs and mouth that he cannot see, and can only visualize in the academic sense. She clarifies. That you fancy her.

That’s ridiculous, he manages to think back. It’s easier when he says the words out loud, but sometimes—when they’re having conversations like this one, or when it’s an inconvenient time to be muttering to himself—he can clarify his thoughts enough to just… think back at her. Rose can’t quite manage that yet; when she attempts to, it all comes out at once, thoughts shoving each other out of the way, word choices selected and discarded, all with a simultaneity that would make a lesser being’s head spin to keep up with. He can only barely just manage. And so, she is relegated to only talking to him when she can do so aloud.

It’s not ridiculous. You think about her constantly.

Yes, he replies coolly, because she lives with me. He would tack on the bit about them living together in a little wooden box that travels through time and space and is substantially larger—one could even say “infinite”—on the inside, but he’s still working out exactly how much information Rose can handle. So far, he has tried to limit himself to passably human-y thoughts and observations, lest she realize that she’s talking to an alien from the future inside her head and declare herself to be mad.

She lives with you, but you’re not a couple? The tone of Rose’s thoughts are slightly confused, and also gently amused, and he would usually take that particular combination for something like condescension. But she just seems interested.

Which is interesting.

Rose really is very interesting.

He looks up, though he’s not sure why. Perhaps he’s afraid that the bare fraction of a thought has manifested on his face, where Charley might see. Strangely, he isn’t worried about whether or not Rose knows she’s interesting to him.

Of course you aren’t, because I’m not a real person to you. Yet.

It’s a good observation, one he only sort of makes note of, because Charley’s eyes are still on him, wide and observant. One of her brows is slowly, gently arching into an ashy blonde curve.

She’s blonde! Rose thinks happily. So am I. And then, a moment later: I wish I could see pictures in your head. I think it would be a lot more interesting than just talking.

“Are you saying I’m not interesting?” The words tumble out of his mouth before he remembers he’s supposed to be thinking them, and Charley’s eyes crinkle at the corners. He watches her lips press together, whitening her pink lips, as she holds back a laugh. “Charley’s laughing at me,” he adds nonchalantly, because why bother pretending this is something other than what it is? It is an awkward, three-way conversation that only two parties are privy to. It would be impolite not to fill Charley in.

I think she fancies you, too, Rose says matter-of-factly. And I think you’re both terribly interesting. I just wish I could see you. There is something like longing in her voice, and the Doctor wants to flinch back from it. He hasn’t told her where he is, because describing it would be impossible. And he hasn’t explained why he won’t come to see her—why that would probably be a very bad idea—because that is similarly not possible.

“Tell her I say hello, then,” Charley says, before glancing down at her book. Her smile is unreadable and faint. And it echoes, is redoubled, by the impression of a smile inside his head. Something like a waving hand and a giggle. Rose and Charley, he realizes, are far too similar. They both like taking the mickey out of him, and their laughter sounds—to him—like two different strains within the same song. They weave and twist together in a way that makes his head spin.

He believes that this connection is going to be much more dangerous than he’d initially thought.

When she enters the console room, he is reading by the fire—or she would assume he's reading, only his eyes have taken on a glazed appearance and he seems to have little enough interest in turning pages. His vacant eyes, his lax limbs tell a different story than the one in his book.

He's probably talking to Rose; he tends to get a bit distracted when she appears. Not that she can really blame him for it. Rose has become nearly as dear to Charley as she has to the Time Lord who she frequently inhabits. Unreal as her presence might feel, she is plainly a good, pleasant sort of person, with a spirit meant for laughter and a natural tendency toward being likeable. Someone well worth knowing.

Charley approaches his chair with care and lets her hand fall softly to his shoulder. The velvet is soft under her fingers, heated by the nearby fire that crackles happily in its hearth. He doesn’t move, or react in any way—not even to blink. "Doctor?"

His eyes snap up to hers, plainly startled. "Ah. Charley. I didn't hear you coming." And then, oddly, his eyes drop back to his book, alight with determination. It seems he intends to go back to reading. Or pretending to.

"Give Rose my best."

At the sound of Rose's name, his concentration wavers. His blue eyes flick up to hers with an odd, rather unemotional quality. His eyes are truly the windows to his soul; she has noticed this in her time spent at his traveling companion and, she believes, close friend. But there is something shuttered about them tonight.

"She's not here, actually. She's gone out," he stiffly clarifies. "With that boy she's always on about."

Confused, she asks, "Mickey?" They both have heard a good bit about the boy who is one of Rose’s closest friends.

"No. Jimmy." He says the name like he might say “garbage disposal” or “sludge” or any other word with unpleasant, rather dirty implications.

"Right," Charley nods. "Her boyfriend." The term feels unnatural on her tongue. She’s never had cause to apply it to anyone before, only ever having read it in some of the more modern books aboard the TARDIS. It feels shamefully casual as a descriptor for any sort of romantic relationship, but she likes to think of herself as adaptable.

The Doctor's reply is only an unclear, rather grumpy sort of sound and another attempt at looking busy with his reading. She smiles to herself when she sees what it is—The Time Machine. Of course. He’s been meaning to read it for years, he told her once.

“Yes, he’s her boyfriend.” The Doctor pauses, turning a page most emphatically. “But I don’t trust him.”

Several things occur to her at once: Firstly, that the Doctor appears to be sulking. And secondly, that he appears to be doing so because he is jealous. She has seen him this way before—he is awfully possessive of the things he perceives to belong to him, and that does occasionally include people; it has often included Charley herself. But there is something amusing about it now, given that he has never met Rose before and, in fact, seems quite determined not to meet her.

“Doctor,” she says, tone mild, “I believe you’re jealous.”

At this, he snaps the book shut and launches up out of his chair in order to pace across the room. “I am not jealous, Charley. I am intimately familiar with the sensation, and I can say with certainty that I am not experiencing it now. But I am… suspicious of this young man’s motives.”

“Motives?”

“Toward Rose!” he cries, throwing his arms into the air. “You know that Rose can hear your voice through my mind, of course, when we’re talking and I’m not consciously attempting to filter out the sounds from my environment?” She takes a small bit of issue to being deemed part of his “environment,” but instead Charley nods. “Well, Rose has similar experiences with this—with her boyfriend, you see? I can hear him when he speaks to her unless she’s working quite hard to block it out. And she’s only human, you know, so she’s not always able to block him out.” His footsteps speed up, wearing a familiar pattern into the rug near the hearth.

Charley feels her own worry rise. It is occurring to her in this moment that, while she considers herself rather familiar with the parties in question, she has only received a rather curated image of Rose via the Doctor’s willingness to communicate with her. “Is he…” She can hardly bring herself to ask. “Is he cruel to her?”

The Doctor’s eyes flash. “On occasion.”

“And yet—you think you ought not intervene?” She tries very hard to keep her tone from sounding accusatory.

“She hasn’t asked!” he cries, and with a dramatic sigh, he falls backwards into his chair once more. His cheeks are unnaturally flushed, and his hair mussed from raking his hands through it. “But… Charley, I’m not sure. I don’t know.”

She wants to arch her eyebrow. This is a rare occurrence: the Time Lord she knows tends to blunder into situations with unwarranted confidence. But at the listless droop of his shoulders, she understands that the situation is certainly more complicated than it appears to her. Something in Rose’s thoughts must be holding him back. And if she prefers them not to come, or if he thinks it would be dangerous, they ought not.

Still, the thought doesn’t leave her entirely. The days pass, weeks—adventures are had, uprisings aided, jail cells occupied. And though Rose is a frequent and amusing companion, Charley cannot bring herself to forget that night, and the look of fear in the Doctor’s eyes.

“So, Rose,” Charley begins one day, after she’s been informed that Rose has slipped back into his thoughts. They are walking, arm in arm, through a market that is almost wholly different from one a person might find on earth, and while he is quite interested in shopping, Charley seems much more interested in probing inside his head. “Tell me about what school is like,” she commands, grinning up at him. This is one of her favorite activities, it seems: learning what she can about the girl inside his head.

To be seen, but not spoken to—to be a conduit—is an odd sensation, and not one he particularly enjoys. But she seems to notice his hesitation, and softly corrects herself.

“I mean—Doctor, if you are willing. I’m terribly curious.”

It’s not that interesting, Rose hedges. I’m not that interesting. I’m not sure why she keeps asking about me.

“Of course you’re interesting,” the Doctor replies. With a glance at Charley, he adds, “She claims to be quite dull, which I don’t believe. I don’t think a dull person could take up residence in my mind.”

“Certainly not!” Charley laughs.

Her laugh sounds so lovely. That longing is back. He can hear it in the timbre of her thoughts, bouncing about inside his mind and confusing his own feelings with hers.

“She says you have a lovely laugh,” the Doctor faithfully reports.

And Charley—well, she blushes, pink and pretty under her sunhat. Humans are so strange sometimes, he wonders. After all, he is only reporting the truth of what he himself thinks, even if he is not currently the one thinking it. He places his hand over Charley’s, where it rests in the curve of his arm. Her skin is warmed by this planet’s binary suns: a pleasant change after their latest series of cold-weather adventures. It’s a very distracting sensation—so much so that he nearly forgets that he’s supposed to be talking to Rose. Nearly, but not quite. He cannot ever quite forget her.

She gives the impression of a smug smile. But it is wistful, too.

He feels a strange sense of balance when all three of them are together, conversing. Even if they can’t be together in the physical or linear sense, cannot be in one another’s presence in the same way real friends could, he still finds peace in the knowledge that Rose and Charley like one another. Neither is threatened by the other; there is no devastating clash of personalities. If anything, they seem to be even closer than is warranted by the rather… indirect nature of their friendship.

“I’m sure her laugh is beautiful,” Charley says, breaking up his thoughts. He’s honestly surprised that Rose hadn’t done so before—she’s usually the first to take advantage of his musings about his companion. But she seems oddly quiet, subdued.

“It is,” he confirms absent-mindedly as he seeks out that feeling—that warm bloom in the corner of his mind. It is still there, and yet, it feels as if it’s receded. The thought fills him with an odd, gasping sensation. Panic. He cannot get enough air. “It’s very bright. Unapologetic, you know. You’d like it.”

“I’m sure I would, but—” and he realizes that they have come to a halt in the middle of the bazaar. The crowd parts around them, like water over stone, as he remains stiff and motionless. Searching his mind. Charley’s fingers are white-knuckled under his, and she is looking up at him with a worried expression that he has only seen a few times before. And never during good times. “Doctor, what’s happened? Is something wrong with Rose? Are you all right?”

“She’s… sad.”

No, I’m fine, Rose says. But her mental voice sounds off, stifled, like she’s speaking into her hands. And watery, too, though he isn’t sure how, exactly, he knows that. He’s never heard her crying before. Does she cry often? His hearts pang in sympathy. Don’t worry about me, Doctor, Rose insists. I’ve just… had a fight with my boyfriend, that’s all. And I had to move out, but—hang on. Hearts? As in, plural?

“Oh. No, that’s nothing. Just one heart,” he corrects rapidly, hoping she won’t know that he’s lying.

“I’ve had enough of this,” Charley mutters. “Doctor, it’s time. You’ve got to tell her who—what—we are.”

What are you? Rose sounds intensely curious.

The Doctor blinks, an effort to get his thoughts straight. “Rose,” he says calmly, “are you all right? Has someone hurt you?” That is the important conversation here, not an analysis of what organs he has and doesn’t have.

She is hesitant; he can feel it. “No,” Rose says, but she is lying. Whether the hurt is internal or external, he cannot tell, but he finds that the distinction isn’t important. What is important is the sudden feeling gathering inside of him, fragments of something he tries not to let himself experience too often, for there is a destructive element to indulging in it: anger.

It beats through him like blood, filling his limbs with an unnatural energy—cortisol, adrenaline. He can break them down, understands them intimately. They’ve gotten him through more situations than he cares to admit. Fight or flight.

“She’s hurt,” he says, and the words are gritty, like grinding stones between his teeth.

Charley’s expression falls. He can almost feel her genuine worry, her despair. But there is also a fragment of knowing, too. As if she’d expected this, or seen something he couldn’t. He watches her expression carefully, trying to tune out Rose’s protestations in his head.

No, Rose is insisting, it isn’t like that. It’s not—

“What can we do?” Charley asks. “Can you find her?”

“I can.” He sounds utterly confident, though he knows he shouldn’t be. He doesn’t actually have much to go on, in regards to locating the mysterious girl who had so intertwined herself with him and his life. However, there were clues: her accent, her vocabulary and use of slang—South London, probably mid-2000s. It was something. He turned on his heel, pulling Charley along with him as they made for the TARDIS again. “Rose, what year is it?”

What?

“Tell me the year, love. Please.” His voice is gentle, and a bit pleading, and so unlike himself that Charley’s mouth falls open. He is half surprised himself.

It’s 2004. What do you… But then she stops. He can feel her dawning understanding. Time Lord. You kept trying not to think those words, over and over, but you couldn’t quite block them out.

“Yes.”

You’re an alien, she hypothesizes.

“Yes.”

“What’s she saying?” Charley hisses, pushing up on the tips of her toes, leaning in, as if her proximity will clarify the conversation she’s only partially privy to. He wraps his arm around her and walks faster.

And you’re coming to get me.

He fumbles the TARDIS key into the lock. “Yes.”

Charley follows, close on his heels. “Doctor? What’s happening?” He has no answer, so instead he squeezes her hand in his. A silent plea to be patient with him.

He hears the hitch of Rose’s laugh—subdued, choked like a sob, and the possibility that he might be doing the wrong thing is suddenly overwhelming. The doubt clouds his vision as he stumbles towards the time rotor. “Rose?”

So, you’re saying… I’m going to be abducted by an alien. And there it is. The smile. The warmth and sweetness, fanning out over his mind like the soft cover of trees. He can feel her amusement, her growing pleasure and excitement. He can feel so much, and he wonders how it’s possible; they only grow more connected with each day that passes. Will that still be true, when they meet?

“Well, I was hoping you’d like to come along of your own will,” he says, lips twitching. “But we’d be happy to abduct you, if you’d prefer.”

Beside him, Charley laughs. The sound is fractured, deeply emotional, and when he looks up at her, he can see tears in her eyes. She is happy with this decision. He realizes that they had always been heading this direction; in the end, it was always going to happen this way. He couldn’t go all his lives without knowing the human who could spark such a beautiful, fragile connection, spinning it seemingly out of nothing. The Doctor feels as if he might burst, and that is a rare feeling indeed.

“And Charley’s not an alien. She’s human, like you.”

Well, that’s a relief. I was wondering how aliens could be blonde.

He beams—he can’t help it. It’s the same smile he’d worn when he’d first discovered her inside his mind: an expression of complete happiness, of such overwhelming joy that he cannot contain it. He can feel her reflecting it. It’s in the warmth she sheds, the subtle glow of her presence. It is immensely distracting. No, it is in triplicate. Even without the emotional bond, his Charley—his sensitive, wonderful companion—seems aware of the depth, the importance of this decision.

But there are calculations to be made. Buttons to press, whirligigs to twist and spin, telepathic intentions to set. “Rose, just one moment. I have to concentrate. Charley,” he says without looking up from his tasks, “I need to borrow your fingers. Here.” And he presses them down in the necessary pattern.

She is still warm. She is still smiling. He can feel the joy radiating off of her like steam from a mug of tea.

Everything is going to be fine.

“Rose Tyler,” he says. He feels that stirring he always gets when he steps onto a planet for the first time—that indefatigable sense of adventure. “We’re coming to get you.” And all around him, the TARDIS roars to life.

#charleightrose (lmaoooo that's NOT A TAG)#eight x charley x rose #eighth doctor #charley pollard #rose tyler #dw #abbey.txt #ficlet #thanks for the prompt!#a-rose-by-any-other-doctor

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